


Home for Christmas

by PartyLines



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Draco has a plan, F/M, Self-Harm, Sort Of, The Slytherin Cabal's Twistmas 2018, could be construed as self improvement, gift wrapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartyLines/pseuds/PartyLines
Summary: Draco tackles an impossible task to bring his son home for Christmas.Written for The Slytherin Cabal's Twistmas Fest.





	Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Twistmas](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Twistmas) collection. 



> Many thanks to my wonderful beta, **zoomzoomzuppa**! All remaining errors are my own. 
> 
> My prompt was: perfectly curled ribbons. It jumped out at me. 
> 
> **Trigger Warning:** This story contains a graphic scene that may be a self-harm trigger.

 

 

**Sixty-Two Days Until Christmas**

There was no sign of hesitation when Luna walked away with Scorpius; she meandered the length of the endless paneled-hall – ignoring the boy's questions – and wrapped a firm hand around the doorknob. Scorpius called for his father, but the words were lost as the distance between them grew.

Draco watched his family leave in the ornate Malfoy carriage; his wife's parting words rolling over in his mind.

" _You_ chose _this, Draco. You chose_ him _._ "

Somewhere in the distance there was a rumble - of thunder or an awful muggle-machine or magic colliding in great, agitated bounds. Draco didn't care which. It fed the insatiable rage beating against his insides - threatening to snap and grind its way through his ribcage.

 _"It isn’t you, Draco. We know you love us, but we need you to show it, too. Sometimes the hardest things are right, you know. Choose_ us _Draco.”_

When Draco looked up, the carriage was gone.

_How dare she!_

 

**Fifty-One Days Until Christmas**

Snow would've fallen in Wiltshire by now, but all Draco had to stare at was sleet and pounding-rain and puddles of mud so large they were more like dams.

 _Damn Luna and her need to be near her friends; living amongst_ Muggles!

He jumped when Pansy appeared beside him, knocking the glass from his hand and stealing the bottle from his desk. She drew the blinds on the window he'd taken to living in front of and kicked her way through the scraps of his anger and the remains of his despair.

She only barked a single word, “enough,” but the way her nose turned up and brow rose was enough to make him listen. One hand rested on her hip and the other skated over his letter opener - sharp and elegant - before she tucked it into her pocket.

He didn't stop her.

 

**Forty-Nine Days Until Christmas**

Pansy flitted about his room, gathering hair-potions and tight new garments that she promised were the current fashion, whilst Draco tried to ignore the pressure – expanding, building, growing – inside his head. It was difficult; the flock of owls were incessant in their attempt to garner attention at his window.

_Why won't they go away?_

He knew why. His father was still waiting for him to show up at work; still thought his sudden resignation was a drunken act of rebellion. At the time, it had been. The owls could keep coming though, he wasn't going back. He just wished they'd _shut up, shut up, shut up!_

Pansy had him dressed in no time, and he thought he looked like a muggle straight out of a children's book. There was something in the way she smiled at him – soft and filled with a pity that looked so wrong on her face – that made him believe her. He stood – nervous and sweating – ready for his interview at Gringotts. His OWLs were good and NEWTs better – given the bias of the headmaster – and the experience afforded him as the figurehead of Malfoy Inc's Finance Department would surely make him a shoe-in for the position.

**Forty-Eight Days Until Christmas**

He didn't get the job. In fact, he didn't even make it into the interviewer's office before he was laughed out of the bank.

"You don't _need_ this job, Mr. Malfoy." He'd said, the apology in his voice not quite reaching his stony eyes.

The goblins hadn't bothered with niceties. "Out, out, get _out!"_ One had said. "Bad for business, having you here. Nothing but a common criminal; a thief! Get. Out!"

He walked out of the bank with his head high and shoulders square; measured steps hiding his disbelief.

 

**Forty-Four Days Until Christmas**

Draco leaned back into the fabricated-comfort of his chair. The only glass Pansy hadn't destroyed was filled with firewhiskey and poised to suffocate his misery and drench his soul in warmth; _her_ voice caressing his heart like poison.

 _“_ _You never see anything through, Draco. You always choose_ that _over us - you choose_ anything _over us_ _. You’re better than that. Be_ better. _”_

He put the glass down.

He'd been denied every position he'd applied for: a Clerk in the Department of Magical Accounts, a Bookkeeper for Scrivenshafts, and even the casual Cashier's job as Flourish and Blott's. They'd all made their excuses: he was underqualified, overqualified or ‘not the right fit’. He knew why though; Luna’s melodic voice chimed over and over in his head.

_You're a Death Eater, Draco. The Dark Lord is dead, and you still can't let it go. You've made yourself a pariah._

The winter storms kept the skies dark and the air cold but refused to bring the Christmas snows with them. They persisted in their greys and blues and bright, sharp flashes and Draco persisted with them.

**Forty-Two Days Until Christmas**

Draco stood in front of the rickety stand outside of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes – arms crossed tightly over his chest and heavy scowl weighting his face – and sighed. "Why are we here again, Pansy?" He questioned, turning up his lip.

"I told you, Draco," she said, all business with her pointed stare and hand-on-hip-don't-argue stance. "This is your new place of employment. I've been using their services for years and they were only too happy to oblige when I asked for a favour -.”

 

"Wait – _you_ frequent the Weasel House of He -.”

" Good-grief no, Draco, do pay attention won't you. No, I use Messieur Mable's W _rapping_ Service. For gifts. He and his associates wrap gifts – Christmas gifts, Birthday gifts, Valentine's Day gifts – all for a fee. He does a marvelous job, and he's agreed to employ you for the Christmas season! Isn't it wonderful, Draco?"

As understanding dawned upon him – somewhere amongst the collection of cheery papers and shiny, sparkling ribbons and spellotapes of all varieties that smothered his vision – Draco concluded that no, it was _not m_ arvelous.

_You choose anything before you choose us, Draco._

"Actually, Pansy" he said, with a muffled huff, "I think this might be exactly what I've been looking for."

 

**Forty Days until Christmas**

Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the near freezing temperatures of winter as Draco concentrated on the package before him. It was tiny and perfectly square – his favourite kind – and he'd managed to secure the soft crimson paper in such a way that the edges were crisp and the corners tight. The invisible spellotape he'd chosen was just right so as not to encroach on the petite fairy-light pattern.

All he had left to do was the ribbon.

His customer stood by, watching – entranced – as Draco unrolled sections of reams and reams of different choices before settling on a muted gold, nodding silently in his satisfaction. He severed a length with the keen edge of Mable's resplendent blade, and with a wrap and a twist and a flip, he had it tied in a neat little knot just left of center on the top of the box. Without looking up he wound each end – carefully, slowly, intentionally – around the length of his wand, muttering heating spells and flicking his wrist _just so_ until he was satisfied.

The package was stunning.

As it turned out, Draco was very good at this job indeed.

 

**Thirty-Nine Days Out**

Draco sat on his bed in the spacious bedroom of the airy apartment Luna had chosen – right on the boundary of a wizarding community. He watched the muggles next door as they laughed and cooked food under manufactured-light, and shared stories of their day together.

Somehow, their evening looked more appealing than his: alone and fiddling with leftover wrappings, clad in a long-sleeved dressing gown and thinking of his son.

He'd lost his job.

A customer had seen the shadow of his Mark and refused to pay.

Mable had been apologetic, but he'd had no choice.

 

**Thirty-Seven Days Until Christmas**

" _Please,_ Messieur Mable. I need this job. It's my son, see. I'll cover up. Anything. I'll work without pay. Just give me another chance."

 

**Thirty-Six Days Until Christmas**

Draco smiled to himself as the familiar, bushy-haired customer thanked him for his work. "My daughter will adore the little reindeer," she said, the words bubbling out and belying the confusion she'd tried to hide when she'd met his indifferent steel gaze as her turn came. "It's lovely that you offer options to suit families of mixed-blood."

 

**Twenty-Nine Days Out**

"It has to go, Pansy, you know how much she hates it." Draco was getting tired of reasoning with his friend. They'd been going around in circles for hours.

Pansy sighed (again). "I understand, Draco. Really, I do. But it just _can't be done._ You _know_ that. At least it's faded: you can hardly even see what it is now!"

"There has to be a way. There's a way, Pansy. I'm certain of it. If only Snape was around..."

"Draco..." Pansy wondered aloud. "I wonder if perhaps... No, it's a silly thought."

"I'm desperate, Pans. Go on." Draco pleaded.

"Well, Slughorn might know of something – he wasn't as forthcoming as Snape, but he was no idiot either."

 

**Twenty-Eight Days Until Christmas**

Draco knocked on the door of the opulent cottage, nerves churning his gut and stinging his fingertips.

Slughorn was his last hope.

When the door opened it took all of Draco's willpower not to turn and run.

_You'd choose anything over us, Draco. Just because it's difficult. Some people say you’re a coward._

The old Professor was just as nervous as he was. "Young Mr. Malfoy," he stammered. "What can I help you with? I don't want any trouble, you know. I'm retired – I don't want any hassle!"

"Oh, do be quiet, you idiot". Pansy never did have a great deal of patience. "Draco needs his Dark Mark removed - can you help? I suggested it, considering you were the greatest professor we ever had..." She winked at Draco, though he was too uptight to notice.

"Dark Mark removal, you say?" Slughorn suddenly appeared _quite_ interested. "They say it's impossible you know... Can't be done... But if anyone could find out a way, I'm sure I... The accolades would undoubtedly be great..." The portly man had already made his decision – of that Draco was certain. "Alright then, young man! I suppose I could be convinced to share my expertise in such matters... for a _small_ price, I'm sure you understand!"

The matter was settled. Draco's mark would be coming off – one way or another. He would show Luna. He _would_ get his son back.

 

**Twenty-Four Days Until Christmas**

It was surprisingly cathartic when he finally got around to doing it; to emptying his study and replacing his most coveted possessions with dull, everyday supplies.

He leafed through volume upon volume that contained precious recounts of the long forgotten magics that he so longed to restore; longed to revamp, rewrite and republish so that a new generation of wizards might be able to bring them back to common use. His gut tightened as he pointed his wand at the hearth – hungry, guzzling flames springing up from the coals – and he began to tear out page after page of his passion.

Luna didn't understand – she never would. This was heritage, this was _history –_ not Darkness – and he loved it with an intensity that almost rivaled his love for his family. _Almost_. He tossed the pages into the fire one at a time and watched in quiet agony as the flames licked at his soul and turned it to ash.

He dug around the room and emptied boxes of family treasures into a heap on the floor, careful to take out a precious few that he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – let go of, and then he turned on his heel and walked out. He cast a choked and broken curse over his shoulder – unable to look back – and sealed the room before the Fiend Fyre took it.

He sat, back against the too-cool door of his burning, shriveling, dying study and a single photograph of Scorpius laughing a symphony of joy in his hand until he fell asleep.

 

**Twenty-Three Days Until Christmas**

He didn't take anything from his potions-lab before it went the same way as his study. Draco spent his evening with a knife spinning in one hand and ribbon slipping carefully through the fingers of the other. His technique was near-perfect, and not even Luna could take that away from him.

 

**Twenty-One Days Until Christmas**

Slughorn took samples from his skin, blood and hair. It all seemed a little strange to Draco.

"Can you do it or not?" He snapped, rushing out the door for his shift in Diagon Alley with only five minutes to spare. His pre-tied ribbons had been squashed during the testing.

"We shall see, my boy. We shall see."

 

**Nineteen Days Until Christmas**

_Dear Draco,_

_I am most concerned over your lack of correspondence this past month and implore you to respond at your earliest convenience lest you wish to have a private investigator on your disgraceful doorstep. Due to your surprise absence, your mother and I would appreciate confirmation of your Christmas Luncheon attendance (you will attend, I will not tolerate you breaking your mother's heart)._

_Regards,_

_Your disappointed Father_

_Father,_

_I will ensure that you get your_ _favourite_ _version of me come Christmas Day, I do so hate to disappoint you. I assure you, I have no intentions of breaking Mother's heart any further._

_Your son,_

_Draco_

 

**Sixteen Days Until Christmas**

Draco flooed the Lovegood family's holiday cottage first thing in the morning. He was greeted by a burly, redheaded man who made anger rise in his gut and salt burn the corners of his eyes.

"She doesn't want to talk to you," the youngest Weasley man – Hermione Granger's _husband –_ told him; stoic and blunt and smug.

 

**Fifteen Days Until Christmas**

Draco's boss was happy to write him a reference – much more so after he explained that it was for proof of employment for his recently estranged wife and not for an employer; certainly not one who actually paid him in usable currency.

 

**Fourteen Days Until Christmas**

The photos were perfect. His newly organised study was professional, modern and as dull as anyone could possibly require it to be. The shell of his lab had been lovingly converted into a brand-new play room filled with toys and games and a pint-sized quidditch pitch perfect for Scorpius. Draco watched out the window long after the owl took off with a copy for Luna.

 

**Twelve Days Until Christmas**

"Yes, Draco, I got your owl earlier today.

"No, Draco, I don’t think you’re ready for me to come home just yet.

"Don't blame Ronald now, it isn’t his fault!

"Of course you can have Scorpius for Christmas Eve. I’d never deny him his father.  

"We'll revisit _us_ next year. I. I'm not ready. I'm sorry."

**Eleven Days Until Christmas**

Draco was particularly cheerful at work. His customers received lavishly wrapped parcels in bold colour and dressed with an array of wide, bright ribbons and laces and tapes. Messieur Mable offered him a pint after his shift. It was something like a raise.

In the evening, he used his Gringotts key to access the Malfoy vaults one final time. He had gifts of his own to purchase and no amount of pride would prevent his ten-year-old boy from having one last magical Christmas before the halls of Hogwarts made anything Draco could possibly dream up seem wickedly-dull by comparison.

 

**Ten Days Until Christmas**

Draco spent his day off and his new, highly prized skills putting together a Christmas presentation Scorpius wouldn't soon forget. He himself was awed by the stark beauty of the perfectly arranged collection of brilliantly wrapped gifts. His son was in for a treat.

It was difficult for him to fathom that something so lovely had come from the work of his hands, and not from a galleon.

 

**Eight Days Until Christmas**

Slughorn was jittery when he shared his invention. It wasn't _exactly_ what Draco had been looking for, but after much research, many failed tests and experiments, and hopeful 'just maybes', it would have to do. It would technically work, after all.

Draco squinted at the vial in his hand, the flutter in his chest and twisting of his stomach niggling at his mind.

_Can I do this? What about Scorpius?_

**Six Days Until Christmas**

Messieur Mable had warned Draco early on that this would be the busiest week of the year. He was not exaggerating.

 

**Five Days Until Christmas**

The bath water grew cool around his tired body as Draco lounged in the dark comfort of the bathroom, soaking away the tenderness of muscles that'd worked harder in the past six weeks than they had in their lifetime; the tenderness of knowing that even after all the changes, his wife didn't want to come home. He rolled Slughorn's vial between his fingers, a long sigh punctuating his uncomfortable decision.

 

**Three Days Until Christmas**

Messieur Mable offered him his job back – should he want it. Draco was confused until he realised that what the man was really offering was to begin paying him again.

He accepted without a second thought, patting the heavy key in his trouser pocket for good-measure.

It wasn't until he was home in bed that he wondered if his decision might change the offer.

 

**Christmas Eve**

Everything was working out perfectly and there was just one more thing Draco needed to work on before Scorpius arrived home. He took to his new study while Pansy fussed about the house, ensuring everything would be ready for the boy's return.

He pulled the haggard cardboard box from its shelf and sat down to ponder his options. The desk chair was comfortable and the whiskey was pouring itself, so all Draco needed to be concerned with was the conundrum in front of him. Just how should he tie the ribbons? A perfect bow? Subtle and neat with no frills? Or perhaps with tendrils pouring in waves down the sides?

Presentation really was _very_ important.

He pushed aside the small cardboard box and lifted the lid on the larger, ornate wooden one that his elf had delivered.

  _Ah yes._

The contents were perfect; he'd been collecting them himself since his wife left. He made a mental checklist to be sure all the pieces were accounted for: the first broomstick he'd ever owned (the one on which his father had taught him to fly that he'd regrettably had to snap in half to fit inside the box), the Durmstrang acceptance letter that his mother had ardently refused to honour (thanks mum), the mammoth eagle feather quill he'd received for his eleventh birthday (so that the other students at Hogwarts would know where he came from) and the pile of black robes that were exact replicas of his father's.

There were his school reports from every year that were always good, (but never good enough), his inquisitorial squad badge, his prefect badge and the first snitch he'd ever caught, placed carefully right alongside the head boy badge he'd been awarded in seventh year. The silvery mask he'd worn during his short time as a Death Eater, and the commendations he'd received from the Carrow twins for his valued performance in Dark Arts classes were tucked into a corner; tucked out of sight.

There were a few final items to add. With a sigh and a twinge of regret, Draco slid the platinum signet ring from his finger – leaving a perfect indent in his skin – and dropped it unceremoniously into the box with his Gringotts key and closed the lid.

 It was perfect.

 It was everything that he had been.

With a wave of his wand, the box sealed itself and soared over to land on the large square of brown paper that Draco had laid out in preparation. His practiced fingers folded the paper expertly – leaving crisp edges and sharp corners – spellotape neatly placed along the seams where the paper overlapped itself.

It was stunning.

He tied the package together with a single long length of string for extra security and released a sigh of contentment.

There was nothing quite like a brown paper package tied up with string.

Taking a mouthful of his whiskey, Draco sat back to admire his handiwork. All it needed was a finishing touch – a pretty ribbon if you will – and it'd be ready to send.

It was time to open the first box, the cardboard one in which he'd collected the necessary items to complete his final task. Draco pulled Mable's beautiful, bewitched blade from its sheath, his sharp exhale affirming its glory. It had been sharpened to a razor edge and the light glinted off it _just_ _so_. Next came the vial of potion that Slughorn had made. It was undetectable – devoid of colour and smell – unless one was to touch it directly. It was the most important part of his project and had taken the longest time to develop. The self-wrapping bandages that Pansy had collected – just in case – sat on the bottom of the box in a neat and unassuming layer, and Draco was satisfied that his mission would go well. Should it not, his back-up plan would kick off and his house-elf would be alerted, and no one need be any the wiser.

With a heavy sigh, Draco retreated to the lounge beneath the tall, empty bookshelf with his collection and enough booze to steel himself. This was a momentous occasion, and he'd hate to ruin it with nerves.

He slowly pulled back the sleeve of his robes (charcoal-grey, thank you very much), and watched as the faded Dark Mark wriggled sluggishly upon his left forearm in a perfect metaphor of what his life had become since it'd been burned into his skin. It hissed and turned and stared up at him with its gaping sockets, and for a while he couldn't tear his eyes away. Then carefully, determinedly, he took the knife and set the glinting point against his skin.

Draco had tried so many times, but now, with his son as a motivator, he _would_ succeed.

Gritting his teeth, Draco drew the blade down beside the inky disgrace experimentally, and watched in awe as shiny red droplets pooled against his pale skin. He dug deeper and in precise half-inch lines throughout the mark, delighting in the crimson which swirled over slashes of ivory and faded-black.

He cried out as he jammed the edge of the knife beneath the first long, clean slice, his teeth smashing together and hand slipping in agonising error in his pain. With his eyes closed tightly, he left the dagger where it lay – tangled in layers of skin and tissue and fat – and scrabbled blindly for one of Pansy's bandages. He stuffed it into his mouth and stifled the harsh, anguished scream that hissed out through bloodied gums and cracked teeth and returned his attention to his burden.

With shaking hands and tremors that wracked his whole body, he forced the blade in further – ignoring his chest screaming for more air and the dizzying rush shooting up his arm – ripping, sawing, _hacking_ at the sentient flesh still fighting its eviction. His working hand was soaked in viscous, bright, _lively_ red, and the one at the end of his left arm hung limp and useless; tendons peering out from gaping holes and nerve-endings sizzling in confusion.

Draco's stomach roiled and convulsed and before he could stop it, his throat was burning with leftover bile and his meagre breakfast was oozing all over him and the polished floor. His tongue tasted like a mixture of acid and betrayal and loyalty in his mouth.

Finally, with two precise, sharp horizontal strikes, he held his thick, sinewy damnation in his right hand as he watched his befouled blood wash away the sins of his being. There wasn't time to allow himself to be caught up in the relief of the moment and he turned quickly, dropping the destroyed skin into a sticky heap on the desk and scrabbling for the vial. He drained it onto the wound, hissing as it steamed and singed and turned a grotesque green as it mixed with his blood. It had to work; it had to stop the mark from reappearing as quickly as he'd removed it.

As soon as he'd made sure to cover the gaping wound in its entirety, he returned to the putrid mess of skin on the bench behind him. He stuck his good hand once more into his precious box of new life and withdrew the largest item – a jar half-filled with a startlingly clear preserving liquid. Unscrewing the cap, he grabbed up the fleshy pieces of mark and dropped them in, watching on in excitement and almost panting with anticipation. It would take time for them to curl, he knew, so he set about waving his wand to apply Pansy's bandage to his already ( _at last, at last, at last_ ) closing wound. When he turned back to the jar, the preservative had begun its work, the floating flaps twisting and turning in their pool of immortalising spirit.

Pansy stuck her head in the door and he turned with a start.

"Someone's at the door," she said. She smiled at her words but couldn't quite hide the gasping sound of her heart breaking as she glanced around the room. "Put on something with sleeves, I'll tend to this."

Draco nodded.

His son was home – just in time for Christmas.

 

* * *

 

**Christmas Day**

Lucius stares at the package on the vast dining table before him in wonder. His wife sits – still refusing to speak to him – to his left and the elf who'd delivered his gift stands to attention, awaiting its next instructions. All he needs is his son, due any minute now, and Lucius will be able to truly enjoy the first familiar Christmas he's had in years.

He does so love Christmas.

However, he isn't a patient man and the gift on the table is enrapturing in its beauty. As the minutes tick by in dreadful slow-motion, he finds himself growing more and more eagre to open it, waiting for Draco be damned. He takes one more moment to admire the square edges and sharp corners of the quality brown-paper and makes up his mind. Lucius Malfoy dismisses his elf with a sneer and offers a wasted smile to his wife as he reaches for the package; his fingers thrumming in pleasure as they weave through the luxurious ribbon decoration. It's such a lovely, tasteful addition, and he's sure the package must've come from old blood – what with the subtle, exacting way the ivory, soft-black and brilliant-red compliment the brown paper. Yes. Things are certainly looking up; people are coming around. It will be a very good Christmas indeed.

He smiles like a much younger man as he begins to unravel the perfectly-curled ribbon.

 


End file.
